


oh, icarus

by soupmetaphors



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon Era, F/M, Gen, Slow(ish) Burn, myth inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8907667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupmetaphors/pseuds/soupmetaphors
Summary: There's a story about a boy with wax wings, the sun, and the sea. Orson and Jyn both know this story too well. [ Written for the Jynnic Secret Santa 2K16 ]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [politicalmamaduck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmamaduck/gifts).



> for the lovely Alexandra. merry christmas, honeyduckie! hope you enjoy this~

_There was a boy who fashioned wings out of wax and sailed off the edge of the world._

It’s a story from even before they turned it into a holovid, passed from mouth-to-mouth, ship-to-ship from every corner of the galaxy. It’s a lesson taught by parents to their bright-eyed, bold younglings: _Everything has a price._

A price for success. A price for failure.

And Krennic knows those prices like he knows the floor plans for his own ship. Knows that wax wings are heavy, far heavier than anyone could imagine, and that to put them on means only one destination, one final running leap into the sky.

_There was a boy who didn’t heed his father’s warnings._

His mother had told him the story, her arms around him, trying to lull him to sleep from another nightmare. In retrospect, it shouldn’t have been a bedtime story. No, this story is to keep younglings on their toes. To make them understand how the world works, and that if you fly too high, you might just find the fall a mite more _painful_.

When they capture Jyn Erso, when they bring her –kicking and struggling- to him, he is thinking of that story. How his mother used to cup his face in her palms, make him promise her that he would always be mindful of his wax wings.

( _“Promise me, Orson.” Her voice is barely above a whisper- She doesn’t wish to wake his father, sleeping in the next room. The smell of perfume clings to her like second skin, cheap jesmin imported straight from Mon Cala._

_In the dark, her eyes glitter as if she’s struggling to hold in tears. Maybe she is. The world is a frightening place, and he’s learning to bite back as hard as he can._

_“I promise.”_ )

He steps away from one memory to find another waiting for him. Somewhere on this ship, Galen  Erso stares at blueprints and bloodies his cheeks tearing furrows into them, desperation and madness driving him ever forward. But here sits Jyn, staring contemptuously at him, arms crossed, daring him-

_Say something, say something, say something._

So he does.

“Did Galen ever tell you the story of the boy who flew too close to the sun?”

She frowns. “I was under the impression this was an interrogation, not a campfire session.”

“Come now, Jyn. What’s a little conversation between acquaintances?”

A look of disgust flickers across her face- But not before Krennic catches the faintest curl of her lip, the way her shoulders relax if not for a fleeting moment.

“I know he flew too close to the sun,” Jyn says, and now her hands are flat on the table. “And the sun kissed his wings and let him fall to his death.”

“Do you think the sun loved him? Or simply his wings?”

She looks straight at him. It sends a little shiver of delight dancing up his spine, the way a hunter feels when cornered by a wild animal. Perhaps this is how his little _adventures_ feel like, on the receiving end of things.

Her head tilts back. He finds himself being observed through lowered lids, and when she crooks a finger at him, he moves round to her.

“Closer,” she tells him, when he stops just by her elbow. “Come on, this will be our little secret.”

Closer. Bending down, mindful of the almost invisible distance between them, of the way her gaze is fixed on him.

_Are you the hunter or the hunted?_

“ _Closer, Orson.”_

Her voice is low, his name drawn out from her lips like a blessing. Krennic bends until her mouth brushes his ear.

For a moment, they’re both still, stuck in this frozen tableau. He can feel her breath on his skin, see her hands still perfectly flat on the table.

“The sun loves those who strive to reach for her,” Jyn whispers. “But the sea loves regardless.”

And when she bites him, he barely notices, not even when the guards storm in to take her to the detention cells, not even with blood running down the side of his face.

 _The sea_ , he thinks. And when he does, he can see Jyn’s eyes, whirlpools in which he finds himself drawn to without a struggle.

* * *

The nights are not usually this long for Krennic. Yet he finds himself turning and tossing, fidgeting like a child.

 _A walk_ , he tells himself, throwing the sheets aside. _Just to check on things._

He’s worked hard to achieve the title of Director, to pin his plaque to his uniform. And to let his own performance wane after climbing this high? Preposterous. There _are_ still rungs to climb, after all. (Particularly Tarkin’s, just to put that fool out of the way.)

Slips out of his chambers, waving away the deathtroopers which guard his door. There  are times when he doesn’t want shadows, thank you very much.

The rounds prove fruitful- Everything is proceeding in order, exactly to his liking.

And even then, he does not head immediately back to his chambers. He finds the elevator, and presses the button that will take him to the detention wing of the ship- There’s something he must discuss with Jyn.

(Or be tormented by his thoughts throughout the night.)


	2. Chapter 2

Jyn waits, patiently. There’s a part of her that understands he will seek her out, that he has not heard the other side of the story before.

_There was a boy who fell from the sky, and the sea opened her arms wide to catch him._

In her mouth, the taste of his blood lingers, like an old friend. And is he not? She remembers trailing after him, watching that white cape swish with such a magnetic pull. A sardonic smile: Not much has changed, she supposes.

The door opens, and Jyn doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“You want the rest of the story,” she says, simply. “Don’t you?”

“Tell me.” She hears the hunger that creeps into his voice, the need to _know_. It would be a lie to say it doesn’t make her feel strangely satisfied. “I didn’t know about the sea.”

His voice draws closer, as does he. She turns, gazes up at him with half-closed lids.

“If I tell you, what would you give me?”

He eyes her for a moment. “Anything.” _But your freedom_ , the unsaid words hang in the air between them.

_Anything._

She sits up, puts her back against the wall. “What if I tell you I want my father?”

Is that disappointment in his eyes? Or regret? “I suggest you rethink that request.”

“You said anything _but_ freedom.”

“Sensible answers, Jyn. Things you actually might deserve.”

She thinks she deserves to see her father. But would it not hurt him, to see her ensnared in the same ship as him? Would it not make him lose further hope of ever escaping?

“I want to eat something that _isn’t_ synthefood.”

He smiles, and his eyes never leave her face. “They only serve synthefood here, I’m afraid.”

 _Of course._ Here in space, what _else_ is there to eat? Jyn squints at him. “I don’t want to be confined to this cell.”

It’s a loophole: Not confined to this cell does not necessarily mean total freedom, does not mean she can run straight to her father and pull him out of this hellhole. She knows he’ll see it. Let him. Let him see it.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Krennic says, and she barely catches her surprise before it spills onto her face. “Now tell me the story, Jyn.”

So she does.

* * *

_“There was a boy with wax wings, who flew so high he caught the attention of the sun. And she kissed his wings, because she saw it was all there was to him, all that had carried him as near to her as possible. She kissed his wings, and watched as her lips burned them down to nothing, kissed his back to leave marks where those beautiful, wide wings once were.”_

It’s an old story. It’s the only story there should be, the only story that anyone ever needs to learn. That the price of success is high- and if you cannot meet its demands, the fall from grace will be long and painful.

But it’s a story about love, the way her mother used to tell her. A story about a boy and two loves who both saw him at the same time, and both caught him in such different ways.

“ _And when there was nothing left to keep him in the air, the boy fell.”_

Jyn watches Krennic’s face, watches as he moves beside her to sit. She moves away- But not much, just enough so that their hands do  not touch, just enough so that her fingers do not betray her.

“ _The sun didn’t help him. She only cared for when he was within her grasp, high enough to see over everything, to master the sky itself. And without those wings of his, he was nothing. A creature of flesh and bone. A creature easily broken, easily bent. She watched him fall, and smiled her beautiful smile. She didn’t even say goodbye.”_

Her voice in the silence. She can feel his gaze on her, like a searchlight burning into her flesh, so intense that it’s difficult to keep her own gaze on the door. Jyn turns her head to look at him.

“ _But the sea was watching. The sea had seen the boy take that running jump off the cliff, seen him swoop high into the clouds to meet the sun. She saw the angles of him the sun didn’t see- His darkness, as opposed to his light, his trials and tribulations._ ”

She leans in, instinctively, her voice becoming quieter, the intensity of the story taking over her.

“ _The sea was jealous. Everyone loved the sun, but cursed the sea, for the sea took and took and took, and gave little to nothing in return-_ “

His hand cups her jaw, and, just like that, all her words dry up. Another frozen tableau. She stares into those beautiful eyes, realizing that their foreheads could almost be touching, that she could just lean in, lean in and-

“Jyn.” Her voice sounds so _different_ coming from him. In the interrogation room, it was but a name, but a label affixed to her, familiar but old. Here? Like magic. Like the dawning of a new day, like dancing barefoot in the grass, illuminated by the moonlight.

She closes her eyes. Leans in until their foreheads do touch.

What would the rebels call this? _Fraternizing with the enemy._ But those are the rebels, fighting the bigger war. She wants her father. She wants out of this cell. She wants-

“Keep your eyes on me.”

 _Orson._ She opens her eyes. Meets his gaze.

And the blasted doors open.

Jyn pulls back so fast she hits her head on the wall. By the time she regains her composure, Krennic’s already on his feet, scowling at the intruder: An lower-ranking officer, who gives her a curious look, before standing at attention at Krennic’s sharp words.

“What _is_ it?”

“Grand Moff Tarkin would like to speak with you, sir.”

“At this time of night?” Krennic scowls. “Does that man not need sleep?”

The officer shuffles his feet. “I need to escort you there, sir.”

“So be it.”

They depart, the two of them, and Jyn does not miss the hesitation in the doorway. But he does not look back, the doors closing behind him.

Only when she’s absolutely sure he won’t be coming back in, she closes her eyes and tilts her head back.

_What have you done, Jyn?_

She doesn’t know. But it feels different, it feels exciting.

It makes her feel like she’s about to put wax wings of her own on.


	3. Chapter 3

He invites her to his chambers the next morning. The deathtroopers bring her in, and the very first thing he asks of her is to step in the fresher.

She stares. Folds her arms. “You brought me here for a _bath_?”

“I brought you here because you didn’t want to be confined to that cell.”

Jyn picks at her clothes, the stolen uniform now rumpled and dirtied. A bath and clean clothes is _more_ than a luxury, given the circumstances. Her eyes dart towards the doors to the fresher, then back to Krennic. The previous day’s _escapade_ flashes before her eyes.

“Fine,” she agrees, eventually. Takes three steps towards the doors before pausing. “Don’t expect me to thank you for this.”

“Of course not.”

Enters the fresher, closes the door behind her. Pulling off her clothes, she steps into the shower, under the hot water. It runs over her aching body, and Jyn takes the time to adjust her thoughts.

_You’re here for the Death Star plans. You’re here for your father._

She needs to bide her time. Needs to finish the story, needs to wrap him around her fingers until she can find some way off this ship, with all the necessary things in the tow.

( _She dreamt of Krennic’s fingers brushing her lips, of her name whispered like a pray from his lips. She dreamt he kneeled in front of her and kissed her feet so gently. And she dreamed she put a blaster under his chin and pulled the trigger._ )

When she’s done, she wraps a towel around herself and opens the door to the main room. Krennic has his back to her, reading something off a datapad.

“The clothes are on the bed,” he says, without turning.

Laid out neatly, black in color. Such a contrast to this white room, to the owner of it. Jyn runs her hand across the fabric: It’s not soft enough to be considered silk, but it’s not as rough as to be considered civilian clothes.

She carries the clothes back into the fresher, wastes no time in pulling them on. They’re clearly meant for someone a few inches taller than her- She has to roll the sleeves past her wrist.

Returning to the bedroom, Jyn finds Krennic still in the same position. Clears her throat. “I could continue the story now.”

“Tonight. There are matters I need to attend to,” he tells her, and when he turns around to face her, he nods, approvingly. “It suits you.”

 _The uniform?_ she wants to ask, wants to laugh, wants to spit in his face. Instead, she nods back.

“Tonight,” Jyn repeats.

A split second of silence. Krennic opens his mouth. And she moves to him, presses her finger against his lips.

“Tonight. No talking, just go.”

Brief surprise in those cold blue eyes, before he brings his hand up, closing over her finger.

Jyn lets him lower her hand. Lets him look at her as if she’s something so incredibly familiar, yet so different at the same time.

And then his white cape swishes, the blast doors open and close- And Jyn is alone in the room.

* * *

She waits. After all, escape here and now seems futile- It’s not a doubt that, on the other side of the doors, Krennic’s deathtroopers stand at attention.

Paces up and down the room. Draws up half-a-dozen plans in her head. Yet every single time, Krennics’s blue eyes flash in her mind, the feeling of his hands on her face, the way his lips look.

( _“What does love feel like?” she asks her father, with all the curiosity in the world._

_Galen looks up. Surprised for a moment, before he smiles and pulls her onto his lap._

_“Like walking straight into deep water, submerged but knowing you won’t drown.”_ )

Jyn wants to slam her head against the wall. Wants to get up and run down the corridors, find Krennic, rip open his throat.

Takes three steps towards the door, steels herself. _Are you not made of wild fire?_ Takes another step. The doors slide open. Outside, the two deathtroopers flanking the door don’t move.

They don’t try to detain her, as she carefully puts one foot in front of the other. Steps out into the corridor. The door closes. Jyn waits for them to move, to bring up their weapons and force her inside. And when no action is taken, she cautiously turns away.

Her movement begins as a walk, trying to get her bearings of the ship. Long, white corridors. Stormtroopers, Imperial officers of all ranks, marching here and there. Jyn keeps her head down.

_Why did they let you go so easily?_

A trap, perhaps. To lure her out and stab her quite literally in the back.

 _No._ Whatever reason she’s being allowed to traipse throughout this enemy hellhole without a hitch, it doesn’t matter. She needs to find her father. She needs to find the plans.

Left. Right. Prays she won’t happen to bump into any higher-ranking officers, officers who will not hesitate to throw her right back into a cell. (Or who’ll put a blaster bolt through her skull in a minute.)

As she walks, Jyn steps aside to let a pair of officers pass, their words catching her attention almost immediately.

“-Check on the scientist-“

“-At least he’s still alive. Yesterday, I heard-“

 _Father._ Her heartbeat quickens. She gives them a moment or two to walk past her before falling in behind them. They don’t seem to notice her presence, still talking.

“-Wants the whole wing closed because he doesn’t want _disturbances_ -“

Jyn swallows. Tries not to appear as if she’s eavesdropping, because the entire game will be up if they notice.

“-Which wing? I don’t want my ass handed to me-“

“-West. The troopers there can be a bit-“

“-No shit-“

At the next corridor, Jyn peels off, presses her back against the cold metal walls. Takes a deep breath. _West wing. Guarded._ Logical facts. Facts which won’t hinder her progress at all, given her determination to see him one more time, to haul him out of here.

She walks, briskly.

It takes her half an hour to find the west wing: Another long corridor of metal doors, numbers plated in gold on the walls by the doors. Further along, Jyn can make out stormtroopers, guarding a door.

She doesn’t so much as break into a run as _charge_ towards them.

They see her coming. Raise their blasters, tell her this area is off-limits, but she’s shoving past them, doors opening for her. Throws herself into that dim-lit room, a room with only one important person, looking up from his work.

The stormtroopers are ordering her to step out and away.

Her heartbeat seems like the loudest thing in the room.

Jyn Erso runs to her father, and the look in Galen’s eyes makes her heart turn to stone.


	4. Chapter 4

Krennic has never expected her to sit and wait, docilely, for him to return. He knows _exactly_ where she’s gone: To dear Galen, to find her father, to make sure he’s alright.

(Krennic himself has wiped the blood off Galen’s face, for some friendships cannot be broken, no matter how repulsive two parties may find one another. Has seen that empty, foreboding look in his eyes.)

And when the stormtroopers step aside, admitting him entry, the first thing he sees is Jyn with her hand on Galen’s shoulder, gripping tightly.

Galen’s gaze flicks to him, and Krennic can see disbelief. _Fear_ , shallowly hidden beneath it all.

“Orson,” he says, hoarsely, but Jyn cuts him off.

“ _Orson_. Are you going to shoot me? You told me not to find my father. But here he is.”

He looks at the two of them. The resemblance between father and daughter is so strong, and he can’t help but marvel for a moment or two. Clears his throat.

“I wanted to see if you would be cooperative,” he tells her, calmly. “Clearly, you’ve proven me wrong.”

“Oh?” Sarcasm in her voice, tone sharp like a knife. “Have I not told you a _story_ , of all things? Have I not stayed still while you-“

_Cupped your face in my hands, thinking of how it feels to-_

“Galen.” Tears his attention away from her, unable to concentrate much further. “Galen, old friend, I hope you don’t mind too much. But Jyn needs to leave.”

“I’m not-“

“Stardust,” Galen says. And, amazingly, she falls silent. “Go with Orson. I’ve yet to finish my work.”

Her face changes. It’s a minute change, but Krennic sees the reluctance shine in her eyes before it slips away.

She squeezes her father’s shoulder. Walks towards Krennic, and nods.

“Before I change my mind, Orson.” Jyn looks him in the eye. “I promised a story.”

* * *

They walk back to his quarters, keep the pace brisk and easy.

“You wanted to test me,” Jyn tells him, teeth gritted. “And there. I failed.”

“So you did.”

Silence. He watches her hands twitch by her sides, steels himself against taking her right in his left.

“So? Are you going to shoot me? Blast me out into space?”

“Whatever brought that notion into your head, Jyn?”

“Stop it!” she snarls. “ _Jyn this, Jyn that_. I shouldn’t even have made that deal with you in the first place.”

People do what they do to survive. And he’s sure she wants to extend her lifespan for a few more years.

 _(Then what about the near-kiss?_ Krennic asks her, in his head. _The shared looks, the odd tenderness? Do they mean nothing?_

 _Or do they mean_ everything _?_ )

Reaching the quarters, he lets her step inside first, lets her sit on the edge of the bed. She glares at him. Arms fold, mouth drawn down low.

“I-“ he starts, and she sighs. It’s a tired sigh, a sigh of weariness and aches.

“Come here. I’ll finish the story.”

Motions for him with her fingers, and he moves to sit on the bed, but she points to the floor, in front of her.

Krennic raises an eyebrow. “You want me to _kneel_?”

“I’m telling the story. I decide how things will go.”

 _And I decide what will happen to you, Jyn Erso._ Still, he finds himself obeying her, knees against the hard floor, like a priest begging forgiveness from a stranger, otherworldly goddess. She surveys him for a moment. Seated, they can see eye-to-eye.

“Are you ready?” she asks. He nods.

“ _The sea gave back nothing in return because the sea never gives what it cannot promise. And the boy fell, straight from the sun, and into the sea’s waiting embrace.”_

There’s something strange about her voice. It sounds flat, nothing like the previous times she’s told it. A light frown passes his face, is gone before she notices.

“ _And the sea... The sea loved the boy. For she saw his darkness as well as his light, his faults and flaws, and she loved him whole. The sun could’ve regretted it for all she was worth, but it did not matter. The boy and the sea found love together, where the water met the land and sky, their own private happiness.”_

She stops. Her mouth opens, as if to continue on, before her lips press into a thin line.

“ _The end_.”

In the silence that follows, he can only stare at her. Her gaze is fixed on a point beyond his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” It sounds like such an idiotic question to ask, that he mentally berates himself for it.

Jyn frowns. “You really want to know what’s wrong, Orson?”

He doesn’t have to reply. Her hands come up, an accusatory finger jabbing him in the chest. “ _You_ are the problem. You and your ridiculous requests, your mannerisms. _You make me feel-_ “

She stops herself, words cut off mid-sentence. Krennic waits for her to compose herself, and she’s still not quite looking him in the eye.

“What do I make you feel?”

( _Like your heart is beating fast in your chest, like you can take my hand and help me raise and empire-_ )

He trails a gloved finger across her jaw. “Tell me, Jyn.”

When Jyn leans in and kisses him, it feels like the stars are exploding one by one.


	5. Chapter 5

They make love slowly, cautiously, as if still wary of each other.  Her hands running through his hair, his hands on her waist. She bites his lips, and he trails kisses down her throat, one hand on the small of her back.

They make love, and Jyn wonders if this means she is a traitor, to her family, to her friends, to the rebels. But, in the morning, when Krennic opens his eyes, still half-asleep, his gaze is tender. And it shakes her to the very core, to know she’s lying with him here while her father pushes himself through his work, so near and so far.

“Orson,” she whispers, as he closes his eyes, walking her fingers up his arm. “Orson, look at me.”

He does, smiles when he does, and it _hurts_. It hurts, because this must be love, this unbearable ache, this fierceness rising in her.

“What is it?”

 _Nothing_ , she tells him, kissing him. _I’ve just submerged myself in your ocean._

And everything, for a moment, is beautiful, bright, and heartbreaking.

* * *

They’ve set course for Scarif, a little tropical planet, an Imperial base now swarming with rebels. Krennic tells her he needs to go down to the surface, denies her when she asks to go with him.

( _All those kisses, those tender moments that have sprung up suddenly, washing away, for he’s still an Imperial and she’s a rebel, and-_ )

“I won’t run,” she tells him, fiercely. “And if I have to, I’ll come back. Just let me go with you, Orson.”

“You need to stay here.”

She thinks of Cassian, of Bodhi, of all her friends, of the rebels, running straight into battle. Of the stormtroopers who will cut them down, and Krennic himself, putting blaster bolts in them one by one.

“Let me go,” she says, stubbornly. “I’m not staying here without you. I’m-“

People have been talking on this ship, about the Director and his little prisoner, daughter of the scientist locked up and still dreaming big dreams. But down there, there is no talk, only running, only fighting. Jyn’s done more than her fair share of that in her lifetime.

( _But for you?_ she thinks, as Krennic looks away. _A thousand times over_.)

“You’re still a rebel,” he tells her, and she is immediately on her feet.

“Are you afraid I’ll betray you?”

A pause. A pause which goes on for almost too long, broken only by Krennic’s answer, one word: “Yes.”

And it doesn’t feel like a slap because she already feels like a traitor to everyone. Feels that the only person she’s true to is herself, and sometimes, not even then. It feels like her knees should be giving out. But she stands tall, stands firm.

“I’m not going to sit here and worry about you dying on the sand.”

“I can’t let you go down there. Jyn, please-“

She catches his hands, looks up at him. Her voice is quiet. “Take me with you.”

There will always be this wedge between them. Two opposite sides of the board, marching onto the same battlefield, once hoping for the other to die. She waits for his answer. Wonders if he’ll relent, if he’ll see the look in her eyes and know it true.

If he does, Krennic remains firm. “You’ll be confined here until I return.”

“Am I a prisoner again?” she asks, bitterly.

“When did I say you _weren’t_?”

The words come out, and she’s always expected them, lurking at the back of his throat. He blinks. Pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Jyn, I-“ he starts, as she shakes her head.

“What kind of love this?” It’s as much a question for herself as for him. “Was it ever love, for us? Or were we just confused?”

Bound by the ties of time and mutual familiarity, thrown into the same situation, different sides of this war.

“I don’t know.”

Jyn feels the bed shift under his weight, feels him sit down beside her. She’s looking at the wall, trying to wrestle her feelings, trying to lay them out one by one and control herself.

( _Who’s the real you? Jyn, the rebel? Jyn, lover to one of the most feared men in the galaxy? Jyn, the scared girl running through the grass? Jyn, the war prisoner?_

So many different faces, and she sifts through them like grains of sand, each tumbling over and swallowing one another.)

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“No,” she tells him, calmly. “Deep down, you’re not.”


	6. Chapter 6

Scarif is in chaos. Stormtroopers, rebels, AT-AT units, droids, run in every direction. The air is heavy with death, blaster fire, and the urgent sense of _survival._ The shuttle is already rising in the air, departing, and he’s already shot three rebels. His deathtroopers fan out, a protective layer.

The mission is simple: To eradicate the rebels here, to reassume control of the base on Scarif. In hindsight, it should be simple. After all, there _are_ some technological setbacks on the enemy’s path, as written in many reports.

But Krennic isn’t too worried about it. He strides through it all, one boot in front of the other. And when he hits the edge of the trees that cover the planet, he motions for his bodyguards to move out.

They stand in the foliage, shooting bolt after bolt, watching rebels and their own forces collide and battle it out. The smell of sizzling meat pervades the air, and as disgusting as it is, he can’t help but to feel the _tiniest_ pinch of hunger at it.

 _Focus, Orson_ , he reprimands himself, raising his blaster, firing at an unfortunate soldier bursting out of the trees. The fellow falls with a scream that turns into silence. The ground shakes with the movement of the AT-ATs, and he can hear screaming from all corners of the world.

Another soldier, another shot, and another, until rebels are swarming the patch of trees, and he’s firing again and again, back pressed against a tree. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something fly through the air, land on the floor.

“Grenade!” someone screams, and Krennic throws himself to the side before it explodes. One moment, the world is full of white light, the next, he finds himself lying in the dirt, battle still raging on.

Stumbles to his feet, looking for his deathtroopers. They’re picking themselves off the ground, but he counts three instead of five. He doesn’t need to ask after the missing two. Instead, he motions for them to press onwards.

The fight takes them down to the beach, sand stained red, bodies of rebels and stormtroopers alike washing up on the shore, like fish carcasses. Krennic and the remaining deathtroopers stand their ground, firing shot after shot. He figures there are only so few rebels left, before Scarif is back under their control.

Then the AT-AT crashes through the trees. It’s turrets angle downwards to them, and he barely has time to register it’s been hijacked before it fires, and he’s tackled by one of his deathtroopers. The shot is loud, jarring, and it sears part of his leg, and he screams in agony. Struggles to rise, the deathtrooper lying on the sand beside him, trying to regain their feet. There’s blood everywhere, _his_ blood, and he’s pushing himself up but there’s simply no strength in his leg.

The laser cannons are warming up. Krennic can see them as he pushes himself, crawls towards the AT-AT, still holding his blaster. It’s futile, but he won’t go down without a fight, he _can’t_ go down with a fight, and this is truly an idiotic way to go-

He fires the blaster the same time the AT-AT fires its cannon.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Jyn pulls off her helmet, blood streaming down the side of her face, visor smashed from landing impact when she tackled Krennic. Cornering and knocking out a deathtrooper hadn’t been easy, but she supposes it’s worth it, now that he’s safe-

The AT-AT fires again.

It fires again, just as she pushes herself to her feet, just as she flings a hand over her eyes to shield her gaze. When she drops her hand, she sees Krennic lying on the sand, a hole burned through his ivory cape, edges ringed with red and singed. The sand beneath him is turning red.

She does not scream. She does not tear at her hair. Instead, she calmly walks towards him, knowing fully well she could be shot at any moment.

“Orson,” she says, slipping her hands under his arms, straining against his weight. “Orson, wake up. Wake up.”

His head lolls like a puppet as she drags him towards the water.

“Wake up. Please. It’s over now.”

 _How does the story go? The sun let the boy fall, but the water took him and loved him, and he lived, he lived, he_ lived.

It’s not truly over: She can still hear blasterfire, and from the AT-AT, the rebels are getting down, coming over to investigate, weapons drawn.

“Please,” Jyn pleads, and they’re almost to the water, he’s almost safe, he’ll be alright. “Just a few more steps, okay?”

She carries him to the water’s edge, where the tides rush in and out. Drops to her knees. Cradles his head, and waits as the water licks at his boots, at his pants, again and again. Waits for that awful, gaping hole to close, for those brilliant eyes to open. For that _smile_ , that smile which Jyn will give all the credits in the world for.

_The water loves you regardless. The water gives you life, and the sun only loves you till your death._

“Please.” Her fingers run through his hair, and she’s kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his mouth, starting to shake. “I need you to open your eyes. For me, Orson, just open your eyes, just say my name, _anything_.”

When was the last time she’s sounded _this_ desperate? It sounds repulsive to her ears, but she can’t stop it, can’t stop rocking him back and forth, trying not to let her voice shake.

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispers, and closes her eyes, forehead pressed against his. “I lied about the end of the story. I’m sorry, please don’t go. Orson, I love you.”

_And when the boy fell, the ocean took him in her embrace, and loved him. But the boy couldn’t swim any more than he could fly, and when the ocean kissed him, he drowned, sinking beneath the dark waves._

She can hear the rebels shouting at each other, hear the faint recognition in their voices. She can hear the sounds of blasterfire slowly decreasing. But none of it matters, does it?

She is an ocean, and here is her boy with wax wings, motionless, back still seared from the sun’s kiss.

“Orson,” she whispers, one last, futile time.

And she waits, knees in the sand, waits with eyes closed for an answer which will never come.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
